


Presumed Dead

by apolesen



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alien Culture, Cardassia, Death Rituals, Episode: s03e21 The Die Is Cast, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-28 02:24:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16232306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apolesen/pseuds/apolesen
Summary: The Obsidian Order is destroyed in the Gamma Quadrant. On the streets of the Cardassian Union Capital, people are celebrating. Parmak is not.





	Presumed Dead

**Author's Note:**

> TW: ritual self-harm, in the form of Cardassian mourning rituals.

The flower-girl wheezed as she picked at her wares to disentangle the stalks. She had extracted a posy when it turned into a coughing fit, which made her shoulders jut forward and her entire body shake. She held up her hand to her mouth and tried to quench it.

‘Sorry, sir,’ she croaked and handed over the flowers. Parmak gave her the coins he had counted out. 

‘You should see a doctor about that cough,’ he said. 

‘Oh it’s nothing,’ she said. He knew that airy tone, so often accompanied with a shrug and a smile. It was the reaction of someone who knew that something was wrong and did not have the strength to acknowledge it. Before he could say anything else, she heaved her basket of flowers into the crook of her arm and hurried on her way. Parmak looked after her. He wanted to follow and try to persuade her to seek medical help, as soon as she possibly could. He did not go after her. All it would do was frighten her. Parmak turned and headed homewards. 

Dusk was approaching, and North Torr was coming to life. This place was never quiet, but today, it was louder than he had ever experienced it. Every bar and drinking-house had its doors and windows open. There were people in the street, laughing and shouting. They were all celebrating the same thing. Two men started singing a common drinking-song, but with new words to fit the occasion:

> ‘Down your drink and pour one more  
>  Old Tain’s mother was a whore  
>  Raise your glass and climb onboard her  
>  Hey good riddance to the Order!’

Parmak hurried past them, pulling his hood lower over his face and shielding the flowers with his hand. One of the drunkards still shouted after him:

‘Hey grandad! Lighten up! Come have a drink!’ 

He continued on his way without looking at them. Would they be punished for their singing? he wondered. The news was still so fresh that no one really knew what this meant. All they knew was that Enabran Tain was dead, and the Obsidian Order was destroyed with him. 

He should be celebrating. The Obsidian Order had taken his life from him. It was they who had executed his friends and sent him to a labour camp. They were the reason for the nightmares and the scars, for the loss of most of his real teeth, for the pain in his bones that sometimes was so bad he could barely move. It was they who had prevented him from helping people, by revoking his medical license and forcing him to jump through hoops to regain it. It was thanks to them he could no longer live in comfort in Paldar, but had to make do with a small, draughty flat in North Torr. 

He should be happy that the Order was gone. He should not be doing what he intended to do. 

The flat was not much warmer than the outdoors. Parmak banged his fist against the heater – it was sometimes what was needed to coax it into working – before heading to the kitchen. As the kettle boiled, he put the flowers in water. He did not own a vase, so a glass would have to do. He left the tea to steep. It would be there for when he was done. 

What he needed was already laid on the kitchen table: a scalpel, sterile swabs and gauze. The glass with the _perek_ flowers looked out of place standing with those things. Parmak took his time cleaning his palm. When it was done, he cleaned the blade of the scalpel. This was his last chance to change his mind. Some part of him wished he would. This was not his duty. Should he not just let him be forgotten? Was the world not a better place, with him and the rest of the Obsidian Order dead? Should he not be relieved?

But he was not. However much he wished it had not been so, he had loved that man. Perhaps, in some way, he still did. His eyes haunted him, but once, those cold eyes had been tender. 

Holding his hand over the perek flowers, Parmak recited the words and cut his palm. As the blood dripped and pooled in the petals, he said the name of the dead man: 

‘Elim Garak.’

***

Seventy thousand light-years away, in the sickbay of a Federation starship, Elim Garak dared to think beyond all the death that had occurred today, to the death he had been mistaken about. Kelas Parmak was alive and free. All those years ago, he had cut his hand and let his blood drip in error. He had never been so happy to be wrong. 


End file.
